I imagine a place where all writers
Are gathered soon after they die;
I know it's true, (it's in my dreams too)
So never do I need ask why.
There sit Dickens and Clements and Doyle,
All sharing a pint at the bar,
While Shelley and Poe exchange stories of woe
And watch all the joy from afar.
Watch Mister Keats dance a ditty
While Hemmingway drums to keep time,
And old Mother Goose peers down from her roost;
A brief pause from writing her rhymes.
All these writers of stories and poems,
Too many of them to number
Share and remember their stories forever
In spite of their physical slumber.
I see them watching their stories
Being read over the generations;
It brings them pride that their works survived
And are shared throughout all the nations.
But one thing that brings them amusement
Is to see people study so long;
To explain the intent or what their words meant
when there is no meaning all along.
Sometimes our words have a message.
Sometimes we want to impart
All of our feelings and memories and reelings
To those who share in our heart.
Is it possible some words have no meaning.
What if we simply write what we dream?
And someday, somehow, people will vow
To figure out what my words might mean.
While up in Writer's Heaven, I'll laugh and sing
Because it won't mean anything.